«Look sharp now,» said Radclif presently, «we’re coming into town.»
A house. A grey clump of Negro cabins. An unpainted clapboard church with a rain-rod steeple,
and three Holy panes of ruby glass. A sign: The Lord Jesus Is Coming! Are You Ready? A little black
child wearing a big straw hat and clutching tight a pail of blackberries. Over all the sun’s stinging glaze.
Soon there was a short, unpaved and nameless street, lined with similar one-floored houses, some
nicer-looking than others; each had a front porch and a yard, and in some yards grew scraggly rose
bushes and crepe myrtle and China trees, from a branch of which very likely dangled a child’s play swing
made of rope and an old rubber tire. There were Japonica trees with waxy blackgreen polished leaves.
And he saw a fat pink girl skipping rope, and an elderly lady ensconced on a sagging porch cooling
herself with a palmetto fan. Then a red-barn livery stable: horses, wagons, buggies, mules, men. An
abrupt bend in the road: Noon City.
Radclif braked the truck to a halt. He reached across and opened the door next to Joel. «Too
bad I can’t ride you out to the Landing, son,» he said hurriedly. «The company’d raise hell. But you’ll
make it fine; it’s Saturday, lotsa folks living out thataway come into town on Saturday.»
Joel was standing alone now, and his blue shirt, damp with sweat, was pasted to his back. Toting
the sticker-covered suitcase, he cautiously commenced his first walk in the town.
Noon City is not much to look at. There is only one street, and on it are located a General
Merchandise store, a repair shop, a small building which contains two offices, one lodging a lawyer, the
other a doctor; a combination barbershop-beautyparlor that is run by a one-armed man and his wife; and
a curious, indefinable establishment known as R. V. Lacey’s Princely Place where a Texaco gasoline
pump stands under the portico. These buildings are grouped so closely together they seem to form a
ramshackle palace haphazardly thrown together overnight by a half-wit carpenter. Now across the road
in isolation stand two other structures: a jail, and a tall queer tottering ginger-colored house. The jail had
not housed a white criminal in over four years, and there is seldom a prisoner of any kind, the Sheriff
being a lazy no-good, prone to take his ease with a bottle of liquor, and let trouble-makers and thieves,
even the most dangerous type of cutthroats, run free and wild. As to the freakish old house, no one has
lived there for God knows how long, and it is said that once three exquisite sisters were raped and
murdered here in a gruesome manner by a fiendish Yankee bandit who rode a silver-grey horse and
wore a velvet cloak stained scarlet with the blood of Southern womanhood; when told by antiquated
ladies claiming onetime acquaintance with the beautiful victims, it is a tale of Gothic splendor. The
windows of the house are cracked and shattered, hollow as eyeless sockets; a rotted balcony leans
perilously forward, and yellow sunflower birds hide their nests in its secret places; the scaling outer walls
are ragged with torn, weather-faded posters that flutter when there is a wind. Among the town kids it is a
sign of great valor to enter these black rooms after dark and signal with a match-flame from a window on
the topmost floor. However, the porch of this house is in pretty fair condition, and on Saturdays the
visiting farm-families make it their headquarters.
New people rarely settle in Noon City or its outlying parts; after all, jobs are scarce here. On the
other hand, seldom do you hear of a person leaving, unless it’s to wend his lonesome way up onto the
dark ledge above the Baptist church where forsaken tombstones gleam like stone flowers among the
weeds.
Saturday is of course the big day. Shortly after daylight a procession of mule-drawn wagons,
broken-down flivvers, and buggies begins wheeling in from the countryside, and towards midmorning a
considerable congregation is gathered. The men sport their finest shirts and store-bought breeches, the
women scent themselves with vanilla flavoring or dime-store perfume, of which the most popular brand is
called Love Divine; the girls wear dodads in their cropped hair, inflame their cheeks with a lot of rouge,
and carry five-cent paper fans that have pretty pictures painted on them. Though barefoot and probably
half-naked, each little child is washed clean and given a few pennies to spend on something like a
prize-inside box of molasses popcorn. Finished poking around in the various stores, the womenfolk
assemble on the porch of the old house, while their men mosey on over to the livery stable. Swift and
eager, saying the same things over and over, their voices hum and weave through the long day. Sickness
and weddings and courting and funerals and God are the favorite topics on the porch. Over at the stable
the men joke and drink whiskey, talk crops and play jackknife: once in a while there are terrible fights,
for many of these men are hot-tempered, and if they hold a grudge against somebody they like to wrestle
it out.
When twilight shadows the sky it is as if a soft bell were tolling dismissal, for a gloomy hush stills
all, and the busy voices fall silent like birds at sunset. The families in their vehicles roll out of town like a
sad, funeral caravan, and the only trace they leave is the fierce quiet that follows. The proprietors of the
different Noon City establishments remain open an hour longer before bolting their doors and going home
to bed; but after eight o’clock not a decent soul is to be seen wandering in this town except, maybe, a
pitiful drunk or a young swain promenading with his ladylove.
«Hey, there! You with the suitcase!»
Joel whirled round to find a bandy-legged, little one-armed man glowering at him from the
doorway of a barbershop; he seemed too sickly to be the owner of such a hard, deep voice. «Come
here, kid,» he commanded, jerking a thumb at his aproned chest.
When Joel reached him, the man held out his hand and in the open palm shone a nickel. «See
this?» he said. Joel nodded dumbly. «O.K.,» said the man, «now look up the road yonder. See that little
gal with the red hair?»
Joel saw whom he meant all right. It was a girl with fiery dutchboy hair. She was about his height,
and wore a pair of brown shorts and a yellow polo shirt. She was prancing back and forth in front of the
tall, curious old house, thumbing her nose at the barber and twisting her face into evil shapes. «Listen,»
said the barber, «you go collar that nasty youngun for me and this nickel’s yours for keeps. Oh-oh!
Watch out, here she comes again. . .»
Whooping like a wildwest Indian, the redhead whipped down the road, a yelling throng of young
admirers racing in her wake. She chunked a great fistful of rocks when she came opposite the spot where
Joel was standing. The rocks landed with a maddening clatter on the barbershop’s tin roof, and the
one-armed man, his face an apoplectic color, hollered: «I’ll getcha, Idabel! I’ll getcha sure as shooting;
you just wait!» A flourish of female laughter floated through the screen door behind him, and a
waspish-voiced woman shrilled: «Sugar, you quit actin’ the fool, and hie yourself in here outa that heat.»
Then, apparently addressing a third party: «I declare but what he ain’t no better’n that Idabel; ain’t neither
one got the sense God gave ’em. Oh shoot, I says to Miz Potter (she was in for a shampoo a week ago
today and I’d give a pretty penny to know how she gets that mop so filthy dirty), well, I says: ‘Mis Potter,
you teach that Idabel at the school,’ I says, ‘now how come she’s so confounded mean?’ I says: ‘It do
seem to me a mystery, and her with that sweet sister — speakin’ of Florabel — and them two twins, and
noways alike.’ Wellsir, Miz Potter answers me: ‘Oh, Miz Caulfield, that Idabel sure do give me a peck of
trouble and it’s my opinion she oughta be in the penitentiary.’ Uh huh, that’s just what she said. Well, it
wasn’t no revelation to me cause I always knew she was a freak, no ma’am, never saw that Idabel
Thompkins in a dress yet.Sugar, you come on in here outa that heat . . .»
The man made a yoke with his fingers and spit fatly through it. He gave Joel a nasty look, and
snapped, «Are you standing there wanting my money for doing nothing whatsoever, is that it, eh?»
«Sugar, you hear me?»
«Hush your mouth, woman,» and the screen door whined shut.
Joel shook his head and went on his way. The redheaded girl and her loud gang were gone from
sight, and the white afternoon was ripening towards the quiet time of day when the summer sky spills soft
color over the drawn land. He smiled with chilly insolence at the interested stares of passersby, and when
he reached the establishment known as R. V. Lacey’s Princely Place, he stopped to read a list that was
chalked on a tiny, battered blackboard which stood outside the entrance: Miss Roberta V. Lacey Invites
You to Come in and Try Our Tasty Fried Catfish and Chicken — Yummy Dixie Ice Cream — Good
Delicious Barbecue — Sweet Drinks & Cold Beer.
«Sweet drinks,» he said half-aloud, and it seemed as if frosty Coca-Cola was washing down his
dry throat. «Cold beer.» Yes, a cold beer. He felt the lumpy outline of the change purse in his pocket,
then pushed the swinging screen door open and stepped inside.
In the box-shaped room that was R. V. Lacey’s Princely Place there were about a dozen people
standing around, mostly overalled boys with rawboned, sun-browned faces, and a few young girls. A
hubbub of talk faded to
